William Blake, The Inscription over the Gate (1824–27): "Abandon all hope, you who enter here."
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate—Dante, Inferno, canto 3
Outside an endless light extends;
There no public execution dates
Capacities to make amends,
Conniving, much forgiveness waits.
Our aim down here is not alone,
And not devising why's or when,
But content and snug at home
Despite this Jungian 2 a.m.
While my cat besides me purrs,
For here no nightmare vision stirs,
Raising self-appointed rhymes
That will yank me back in time
And my daunting dreams refine
Of an unregurgitated scene—
Since things are seldom what they seem!
My bedside book is Young’s Night-Thoughts,
The midnight feast the ah’s and oughts,
the primrose path, sleep’s guillotine.
April 5, 1794 / December 26, 2024